Flashback
by Besina
Summary: John has a very real flashback. Sherlock must talk him through it while being viewed as the enemy.


"John?" Sherlock's voice came from very far off.

John was dimly aware that he was sitting in the far corner of the sitting room, shaking, but that isn't what he saw. He was very clearly in the middle of a combat zone, explosions hitting about every ten feet. A strangely familiar-looking enemy was approaching. John's gun was out and directed at him within seconds. The enemy fighter paused, hands up, placatingly.

John squeezed his eyes shut for a fraction of a second and shook his head sharply. _This isn't real, this isn't real._ But it was by far the most real of any flashback he'd had since he'd arrived home. Most of them happened in his sleep. Still, everything looked, smelled, felt real. He could feel the grit of sand underneath his fingernails, the heat of the desert, scent the smell of blood, hear the cries of his comrades.

John twitched the barrel of the gun, lifting his chin in a sharp gesture, "Back off. I don't want to shoot you."

The insurgent/Sherlock backed across the room/compound.

John raised his other grimy arm to swipe the sweat and blood from his forehead. His enemy wasn't looking frightened, as he should, unarmed and in a British encampment with a slightly shell-shocked soldier pointing a loaded weapon at him. No, he'd backed away quite a bit, hands still raised in front of him, sank into a squatting position and he looked...curious?

"John? Who am I?" He spoke with an extraordinarily clear English accent.

A faint outline of the apartment briefly overlaid that of the desert, disappearing as quickly as it had come.

"Who are...? Shut up! I don't know! Don't come any closer!"

"Okay," the voice soothed, then the man settled down into a sitting position – definitely less intimidating – harder to spring at someone from sitting than from squatting. "Do you remember Sherlock?"

John's brain kicked into overdrive. Sherlock, yes, Sherlock, insane wanker, also friend. He nodded sharply.

"When did you meet Sherlock, John?"

"What?" John blinked several times, somewhat confused but still not taking his eyes off his target.

"When did you meet Sherlock?" The question was repeated.

John's forehead crinkled in thought. "Um... winter. Two, uh two? winters ago?" John thought he was very definitely losing his grip. He shouldn't be talking to the enemy like this. Where was his backup? Any backup for that matter?

He flinched again as an explosion only he could hear rocked the ground very close by.

Sherlock ducked as the gun waved around unsteadily and John threw his free arm over his head for cover, before steadying himself again. When he looked back up, the insurgent was laying on the ground. The doctor in him took over for a minute, barking out, "Are you hurt?" in Farsi.

"No, no, I'm fine," the answer still in perfect English – it was throwing him off, "just ducking in case you fired."

"I'm not going to fire. Sit back up."

Sherlock righted himself. "Do you remember being invalided out from Afghanistan? Coming home to London?"

The insurgent was getting on his nerves. "Of course I do, how the hell did you know that?" His eyes narrowed.

"You didn't go back after that, right? Invalided out. Couldn't have gone back."

There was a beat as John processed all this, poking at it for holes – it made sense, but he was _here_, wasn't he?

"Then you met Sherlock."

John nodded.

"Shared a flat."

Another nod.

"Didn't go back. You're not in Afghanistan now, John. You're having a flashback. A mighty impressive one at that."

John stared. A flicker of the flat overlaid itself on the desert once again. He shook his head again trying to shake the confusion.

"I'm not an enemy, John. Please don't shoot me, or your medic skills might actually be needed." There was another beat. "John, it's Sherlock."

John's breathing, already elevated from the danger and explosions around him, tripled. He was having a hard time keeping a grasp on things.

"Don't panic, don't panic. It's okay. Just breathe, and please, put the gun down." Sherlock's tones swept over him. It may not be Sherlock, but it sounded like him. Sherlock was safety, _well, relative safety_, and home. He took a chance, lowered his gun, and put his head between his knees.

He heard the other man shift, as if to get up. "Don't," he managed, hand twitching toward the gun once more. "Just don't. I can still kill you without a gun. Stay away."

"Okay," came the same steadying tones. _Sherlock had never been this accommodating, _thought John,_ then again, he'd never pointed his gun at Sherlock. Maybe he should._ A small bark of morbid laughter accompanied the thought.

"Can we put the gun someplace else, so you don't shoot my head off by mistake? I completely believe you could take me unarmed. I'm not about to cause trouble. I'll just sit here, hands front, just like I have been, okay?"

John looked up briefly, saw the man sitting, hands lifted in front of him, just as before. He looked calm, reassuring. John nodded, then dropped the clip out of his gun, and removed the bullets from the chamber, setting it down beside him.

"If you're Sherlock, why are you out here?"

"Flashback John, I'm not in Afghanistan and neither are you. We're in the flat. Can you see the flat?"

John shook his head. He saw the camp. It was quiet now though, empty, though his heart still thudded in his chest. "I saw flickers, earlier, during the explosions. No one's here now."

"You're still breathing pretty fast, John, can we bring that down a bit?"

John looked at him and simply shook his head. "I'm not sure what's going on. I know what you say, but this is real. Really real, and for all I know you were educated in Britain, which explains the accent."

"But you've already met Sherlock, correct?"

"Yes."

"And that happened _after_ Afghanistan, yes?"

John nodded.

"And you couldn't have been shipped _back_, hm?"

Again, John's forehead crinkled. "No, I suppose not."

"Then all that leaves us with is that, regardless of what your senses are telling you, you are, in fact, in London, with Sherlock, me."

"Is this a dream?" John was getting more confused by the minute.

"I wish it were, but no. We're in the sitting room."

Both relief and doubt poured over the doctor, and he started to find it hard to breathe.

"John. John. John? Shhh. Calm down. You're okay. You're okay. Do you trust me?"

John shrugged as he kept trying to inhale lungful after lungful of air.

"Can I approach you now?"

Another shrug as anxiety, doubt, and fear battled for dominance in John's ever more cluttered brain.

Sherlock didn't stand, merely just pushed himself over next to John's side, still murmuring, "It's all right, it's all right."

John swallowed hard, and looked up... Sherlock. It was Sherlock. Sherlock was next to him on the floor. He was at home. There was a brief flicker of the desert, but it went away as quickly as it had come. His breathing came even harder than it had been, and he could see the look of panic deepen on Sherlock's face.

Sherlock hadn't touched him, probably hadn't thought it prudent – he'd have been right. He looked as if he was about to speak again when John launched himself at his flatmate, arms encircling his neck, tugging him close as a wave of tears burst forth from him. "Oh god oh god oh god," he panted, still unable to get enough air, and spasms wracking his body as he cried, gulped, and tried not to think of what could have happened.

Sherlock, usually wary of physical contact, didn't flinch. He enveloped John in his arms, squeezing back reassuringly, making soft murmurs and hushing sounds. "It's okay," became a mantra, and the more he heard that soft baritone repeat it, the more okay it became, until John simply fell asleep of sheer exhaustion, slumped into Sherlock's lap.


End file.
